For the Waiting Ones-a Prayer

God, we are waiting. 

Waiting for so many things, waiting for your guidance and clarity. We don’t want to make a move without your presence going before us. We know that you are indeed with us always, as you promised, but we don’t want to make decisions on our own strength and in our own understanding. We acknowledge that waiting is often part of your plan for us, part of the way in which you are disciplining us and molding us in love. Even though we don’t know why we are waiting, we trust that you are with us in it. We know that you do not leave us alone, for that would be truly more than we could bear. 

Thank you for shielding us from things even unknown to us, for always working behind the scenes in ways we can’t begin to understand. Help us to remember your great power, your great sovereign command of the universe and of our own lives. We acknowledge you as the Great I Am, the First and the Last, the Alpha and the Omega. You stand in all power outside of time and space. You hold us all together, protecting us and caring for us in all things. Help us shed the lies that peace lies in certainty, in circumstances, in getting the things we want, in getting our life in some kind of order. You are our Peace. 

Breathe on us, heal our hearts. Give us the faith we need to keep on trusting you, to keep looking at you when everything else is in shadow. Remind us to make time for you, to read your Word, and to listen to what you have to say to us. Remind us that you always show up in our listening. Your word says that it is good for one to wait for the salvation of the Lord. We trust that you will yourself be our sustenance while we wait, that you will be our manna in the desert places of our lives. We give you these dry spaces, trusting that you will transform them and use them for your glory and our good. Give us true patience, to trust you even if and when things might not change. You yourself are our great Treasure, our great Portion. Enlarge our hearts and minds to receive you as our peace and our King. 

Amen. 

Beauty always grows in stark spots, the rusty and wild places. 

Wild Hopes and Bright Lights

No more let sins and sorrows grow

Nor thorns infest the ground

He comes to make

His blessings flow

-Joy to the World

For to us a child is born,

    to us a son is given;

and the government shall be upon his shoulder,

    and his name shall be called 

Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,

    Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

Of the increase of his government and of peace

    there will be no end,

on the throne of David and over his kingdom,

    to establish it and to uphold it

with justice and with righteousness

    from this time forth and forevermore.

 The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this.

-Isaiah 9:6-7

There is always an invitation to fear. 

Fear is always with us, always immediately outside the door, always asking to be let in. Day in, day out. Year after year. Breath after breath. Reports of war and terror and unrest and a planet that is tearing itself apart fill our screens and minds. Difficult people and estranged relationships and things said or unsaid, things done and undone, weigh heavy on our hearts. We can also be filled with fear at our own lives, in the confusion and the mundane and the unfulfilled dreams—the sense that this isn't how it was meant to be. We face fear of the unknown in the future before us; we try to leave fear behind with our past choices and circumstances. Fear is always waiting for us. 

What is the remedy in a world so dark, in hearts so easily bent? Can there be one, or are we all so tied to fear? 

In this season of Advent, we wait. We wait in the dark, we hope in the dark. 

We join the ancient practice of preparing our hearts for the celebration of the birth of Jesus. Before a child can be born, there is the long wait. Before a son can be given to us, we had to prepare. Before the Wonderful Counselor, the Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace could come to us, there were years and generations of waiting. Before the government could be put on his shoulder, there was darkness and fear. Before the increase of His kingdom and peace, there was the fear of not knowing. There was only waiting. There was only hoping.  We wait with the world and we look forward to the joy of remembering His birth and what it means for all of us.

Fears are transformed in December; we stake our claim that hope and love and the gift of a Savior is stronger and larger than the darkness of our twisted world, of our twisted hearts. Anxieties are put to rest with the birth of a virgin’s son. Disappointments and discouragements are melted in the cry of the newborn King. Hopes are renewed, faith is reborn, and we find our joy in the light of his coming. 

So in a kind of wild hope, we set up our lighted Christmas trees. We hang up bright lights around our windows, defying the dark days and long nights. We decorate and bake and shop and plan and celebrate those we love. We reread the ancient Scriptures and remember the story of Jesus’ birth together. We hope and long and yearn for peace—for our friends and family, for our world, and in our own hearts. 

And yet, we do not just simply wait in a kind of wishful thinking. We can bring His kingdom to light no matter where we are. We who believe that the government is upon his shoulder, we hold his glory in our hearts and lives and relationships. We who believe Jesus is the Prince of Peace for all—we are called to continuously mirror his joy and reconciliation and love. We cling to this Prince of Peace instead of all our fears. In this way, as the old songs say, both the hopes and the fears of all the years are met in the light of His glory and grace. 

A Prayer

Shine Your light so all can see it 

Lifted up, 'cause the whole world needs it 

Love has come, what joy to hear it 

He has overcome, He has overcome

-SMS (Shine), the David Crowder Band

but these are written that so that you may believe 

that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, 

and that by believing you may have life in his name. 

John 20:31

Jesus, in this time of fear and unrest in our world, brought on by hate and zeal and belief in all the wrong places and things, may you be King. May you guide our responses and our prayers and our actions and behaviors. Be our Teacher, our Comforter. Use us to bring peace, as you brought peace. Strengthen us to mourn with those who mourn. Blot out our fears and our worries and our anxieties.

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. John 1:5

Jesus, in your life and your death and your resurrection, you teach us how to live.

You are King of life, and of death. 

You are King of our weeping, and of our rejoicing. 

You are King of our fears, and of our peace. 

You are King of our doubts, and of our belief. 

You are King when we are locked in inactivity, and when we are out in the world in your name. 

We see your loving response to us when we are overcome, in the book of John, chapter 20. We see it in the story of Mary Magdalene, who was inconsolable after your crucifixion. She found your tomb empty, and raced to tell your disciples who came to see for themselves. 

After they examined your vacant grave, and left, scratching their heads, Mary did not have the strength to leave and move on. She leaned on your tomb, and wept. In her grief, you chose to bless her—the first to see you in your resurrection. The angels asked her, “Why are you weeping?” Mary’s only thought was to be with you, even if just your empty bodily shell, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” When you then appeared to her, her grief was still too much for her to see you fully, and you, in all your gentleness and grace, repeated the angels’ question. Deep in grief, she still did not recognize you, until you said her name. Until you said her name, “Mary.” Then, only then, did she see you, and her grief melted away like frost meeting the morning sun. Only when you know us and name us, can our grief and our weeping cease in the sheer surprising joy of your presence. Only when you meet us where we are can we be whole. Only when we embrace you as King of our grief, can we know rejoicing and fulness and abundant life. You do not erase our grief, but you sustain us in the midst of it with your very self. Mary’s grief was real, just as your death was real. The separation between yourself and us was real. Your resurrection brought you back to us, and you choose to bless us, just as you blessed Mary outside your empty tomb. Say to us our names, and capture our hearts, blowing out our grief like a candle. 

Before the disciples had seen you, before they were bolstered and strengthened by your renewed presence, they hid. They hid behind locked doors, no match for the strength of Rome or the powerful religious leaders, and certainly no match for you. When you appeared to them, they were full of fear, confusion, and doubt. Instead of reprimanding them for their lack of faith, their lack of decisive action, you blessed them, and you spoke peace to them. You showed them your pierced hands, your lacerated feet. You built them back up, and you confirmed their place with you, with the Father. You met each of them in their brokenness, in their terrified hearts, just as you meet each of us even today. Even though we too hide behind our struggles and doubts and fears, they are also no match for you. You bind up our wounds, our pains, because your love for us outweighs even death itself. As you sent the disciples out to spread your love and soothe the brokenhearted, so you send us now, today. 

In all our grief, our fears, our doubts, you come to us through the locked doors of our hearts and our minds, and you stand among us, and you both speak and breathe peace into our fearful places. You know our individual struggles, and you meet us in them. Meet us now, and use us to meet the world in all its fear and terror, and breathe your peace to us once again. 

When Tough Cookies Need Some Peace

Those who believe in God can never in a way be sure of him again. Once they have seen him in a stable, they can never be sure where he will appear or to what lengths he will go or to what ludicrous depths of self-humiliation he will descend in his wild pursuit of man…and this means that we are never safe, that there is no place where we can hide from God, no place where we are safe from his power to break in two and recreate the human heart because it just where he seems most helpless that he is most strong, and just where we least expect him that he comes most fully. 
—Frederick Buechner, The Hungering Dark

But now in Christ Jesus you who were once far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ. For he himself is our peace, who has made us both one and broken down in his flesh the dividing wall of hostility…
—The Apostle Paul, in his letter to the Ephesian church 

Coffee for all THE TIMES.

There are days, aren’t there? Days and seasons and years where it seems like nothing is going right, where things are not ok, where we are just off. Maybe we can’t put our finger on it; maybe we know exactly why we are not ok. Maybe something is off with a friend or a family member, maybe we are in the middle of saying goodbye to things or people or jobs we hold dear and to whom we want to hold fast, but we can’t. Maybe we still miss the ones to whom we said goodbye a long time ago, and our hearts can’t forget the ache, the hole left in absence. Maybe things are slipping out of our control—we see loved ones heading down hard paths or our health is falling through our fingers like heavy, wet sand. Maybe we find ourselves looking out of the window in the middle of our day, in the middle of the circumstances we find ourselves in and we wonder. We wonder how did I find myself here? What happened that this is the job, this is the situation, this is the place in which I find myself? 

Or maybe we are just tired. We are tired of the constant noise from our phones, our TVs, our news feeds, our neighbors both next door and far away. We are tired because we can’t remember the last time we had a really good rest. Maybe we just long for a break of some kind, of any kind. We long for a new season. New seasons of good things, of breaks in our heavy skies. We tell God that we are ready for something new; that we’ve truly learned whatever lesson He could be trying to teach us. We try to beg or plead or weasel our way out of our circumstances. Maybe our circumstances are the result of our choice or another’s or merely the result of a hard and unrelenting world, but still, here we are. 

Here we, then, in our individual deserts, in our own jungles, in our mazes and labyrinths and webs. Where do we go from here? How do we find peace, how do we find our way from here? How do we break out of what holds us back, what keeps us in prisons of discouragement and depression? 

If we can quiet our phones and our minds even just a little, even just for a moment, we will hear a still, small, gentle voice, calling out to our deepest longings. 

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.”—Matthew 11:28-29

This ancient call comes from Jesus, the God-Man who turned history and lives upside down, who came to us in dire circumstances of his own. Born to an unwed mother, forced to flee his native country as a child, living a common, day-to-day life of a laborer for most of his years on earth, Jesus understands the need for rest, for peace, for purpose in the middle of life’s hardest seasons. He understood how hard it is to wait, how hard it is to ignore the other calls in our lives. 

We can trust this call comes from someone who understands us in all our seasons and sorrows, and from someone who has the power and the desire to give us a true rest, a true home, a calm in the middle of the storm. This call is still for us, the modern cynics, the baby boomers, the Generation X-ers, the entitled and the apathetic, the successful and the failed, the passionate and the confused, the energetic and the tired. This call is for us, for me and for you.

He never forces us to come to him; he only calls out to us to come, the only one who can offer what we so desperately need and desire. When we come to him, even when we have to crawl or limp, he will lavish rest and grace and peace. We will not find all the sorrow gone, no; we will find that the yoke of living life is now shared, and we will now walk with Christ Himself. We will find a loving teacher, a loving savior, a loving Father and Friend to support and strengthen our hearts. Even in the middle of heavy circumstances and burdens, we will find rest. That is the radical and wild promise of Jesus to us. When we, the Prodigals who have run from home, merely turn around, we will find Jesus waiting to embrace us in love and grace. We will be amazed at what He can do with our lives, our hearts, our brokenness, our pain, our fatigue. He is ready to exchange our ashes for beauty, our sorrows for joy, our sins for holiness, our mourning into dancing. He is ready to make us new, as each day is new and full of promise. 

Hope in Focus

You can dance in a hurricane, but only if you’re standing in the eye. 

-Brandi Carlile, The Eye

Since we have such a hope, we are very bold. 

-The Apostle Paul, 2 Corinthians 3:12

I’ve been thinking a lot about hope lately—how necessary and hard it is to hold close. 

Sometimes hope is a hot potato. You just need to not drop it, or it’ll fall on the floor and get dirty and smashed. But on the other hand, maybe hope will burn us if we hang on it too long. If hope is not realized, not seen, will it harm us, dent us, make us misshapen? And if hope is too hot to handle, does that mean it’s just too much to hope for? 

Maybe hope is more like one of my lost earrings. I know it’s there somewhere—I just can’t find it. Must be buried in a drawer or under some furniture. It will look really nice when I finally find it, use it how it was meant to be used. Someday it will surface. But for now, I’ll just have to live without it. 

Brightening up our movie collection with happy lights. 

This elusive thing called hope seems, then, so dear and fragile. It’s also one of the great facets of the faith-the Apostle Paul says that after everything else in life, three things remain: faith, hope, and love. So in addition to being a bit slippery to hang on to, it’s essential to following Jesus as we travel this world. Makes it a bit tricky, doesn’t it? Hope gets rained out, gets benched when we need it the most. Circumstances and choices collapse on top of our wishes and desires, snuffing them out, breaking them in half. But without hope, we merely limp along. We get by. And we wonder where the abundant life, the good life went. We then set aside our expectations so we won’t keep stumbling over them. Hopes may get moved to a “someday thing” or a far-off thing in our minds, and we move on to functioning. 

When life gets rumpled, when it gets stuck in a seemingly endless montage of gray days and rough nights no matter the weather, how do we relight the candle of hope? How do we set it bravely on top of our lives? How do we make our lives receptive to hope and expectation? 

I think that it does come back to putting one foot in the other, even though it seems like a poor substitute for felt hope, for realized expectations. At first it seems almost false to “just function,” as though we’re putting on an act. But when hope is absent or faint, it makes sense we must practice having it. We must practice hope, even when it feels foreign or nonsensical. Just how I know my lost earring is there somewhere, we must live in the reality of hope, even though we can’t always feel it or see it. When we visit with friends, we are practicing hope. When we read a favorite book or start a new hobby or project, we are practicing hope. When we say “I love you” or “I care about you” to the loved ones in our lives, we are practicing hope. When we plan our future with open hands and open minds, knowing that things can change at any time, we can do so in hope. 

When we are practicing hope and expectation, we can more easily look to the Maker of Hope and Peace. We can remember that Jesus is indeed the Author and Creator of Hope. We can remember all the things He’s done for us in the past and use them to light our way. We can look forward to what He’s going to do in the future with us and through us. When we don’t even know what to hope for, we can rest in the fact that Jesus intercedes for us and knows what we need. We can rest in His love, knowing that He can use us in all our weaknesses, even when we don’t have much strength that we can give. Although we can’t summon hope like a magic spell, we can ground ourselves in remembrance and thankfulness. And when we do, I have a suspicion that hope will begin to bloom, as they say, where we’re planted. 

It's the Little Things

Your albatross, let it go, let it go,
Your albatross shoot it down, shoot it down
When you just can't shake
The heavy weight of living
-Bastille, The Weight of Living, Pt 1

Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where
moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, 
but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven where neither moth
nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal. 
For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. 
-Jesus of Nazareth, Matthew 6:19-21

This might sound dumb, but I just CLEANED MY HOUSE. 

All day long, I’ve been looking forward to coming home (duh) and CLEANING (weird. also unusual). As soon as I got home, I put in the second-to-last load of laundry from the weekend that didn’t quite get done, and changed into home clothes. Then I found the duster and went to work. I do wonder why most of my furniture is dark—note to self: spray paint or get lighter furniture that won’t show AS much dust. Geez, it pops up so fast. After dusting the bookshelves and the coffee table and the TV stand, I heaved out the vacuum and got going on the carpets. I found myself feeling a little perhaps TOO proud of myself for vacuuming when I realized that the thing was set to HOSE not CARPET. Oops and that’s what I get for feeling smirky. At least I was still in the first room I started. While I didn’t get under ALL the furniture, I did move the coffee table and the dining room chairs, so I get major points. Of course. Then because I was still moving, I wiped down the bottom shelf of the fridge. Because you know what collects down there. Shudder. 

I can’t even tell you how I feel right now. It’s probably like how Julius Caesar must have felt upon his triumphant entry back in Rome after conquering everything and everyone. 

It felt so good to accomplish some Real Things on my stagnant To-Do List. I’m forever making impossible To-Do Lists for myself—impossible even if I didn’t have chronic pain—and feeling bad about myself because I usually just end up on the couch staring around my house at all the things I was GOING TO DO, or watching another B-movie because A) Duh, and B) it’s easier than feeling bad about not DOING ENOUGH. Ben-Who-is-Truly-My-Better-Half does about 89.4854398674% of everything around the house, and I am sooooooo thankful. He cooks, he cleans, he shops, he vacuums, he does bathrooms, he is the Man. I always want to do more, though. I want to pitch in and “do my part,” whatever that means. Since we’ve been married, my ability to help out has diminished INCREDIBLY, and sometimes it’s super hard to fight the feelings of inadequacy and guilt. Feelings of panic roll in: “Isn’t this a PARTNERSHIP? I DON’T FEEL LIKE I’M GIVING ENOUGH. OMG HE’S DOING EVERYTHING. HE’S NOT EVEN COMPLAINING. HE’S SCRUBBED THE TUB OUT THE LAST 73 TIMES. I AM A WRETCHED WIFE. WOE IS ME FOREVER AND EVER AMEN.’’

But while I was wiping out the fridge, on my knees surrounded by cold bottles of bbq sauce and hard cider and salsa, I found myself asking, “Is this what makes me a good wife? A good person? A good anything?” Sure, I mean, it’s great to be able to move around enough to wave the vacuum around and swipe at dusty surfaces. I LOVE THAT. It makes me feel so normal and even thankful to be able to indulge in a little clean-up. As a chronic pain feeler, anytime I get to participate in daily activities, I am overwhelmed by gratitude and a sense of accomplishment. Did I make it to work? LOOK AT ME GO! Did I shower today? HECK YEAH! Did I go to dinner with friends? OMG I’M NORMAL. Did I go shopping and get some errands done? WATCH OUT WONDER WOMAN. 

I think I waste a lot of time, though, thinking that it’s DOING all these things will make me a good wife, a good friend, a good whatever. And doing is sure part of leading a good life. But it’s not what makes me a good wife. I need to ask myself other questions, like did I listen to Ben today? Did I tell him I love him yet today? Not did I make the bed today, but did I make the most out of my time with him today, whatever that might look like? These questions are also flowing over into other parts of my life—did I make the most out of my time with my friend? Did I give 100% at work today? Am I looking for things and people to be thankful for, even when I can’t get off the couch and reach for the duster? I’m slowly, ever so slowly realizing that I can make shorter To-Do lists with an open mind, knowing that it’s probably NOT the end of the world if I didn’t Do IT ALL. And that checking things off a list doesn’t make really make me the person I want to be. 

Because I don’t want my heart, my treasures to be tied up in clean floors. Or In having a tidy pantry. Or a picture-perfect, Pinterest-perfect bathroom. I don’t want to get to the end of this life and look back on my years and only have some scrubbed tiles of which to be proud. I want to enjoy time with my Ben, with my friends and family and co-workers. I want to enjoy belonging to Jesus—I want my heart to care about what He does, to invest my life and heart in what He’s about—loving Him and loving others. I want to be able, at the end, to say I was overjoyed at my life and the things and people He’s given me. I want to be faithful in the small things, like housekeeping when I can, and know He can use something even like that to bring me to fuller truth. So here’s to striking when the iron is hot and getting things done when possible, and to living life to the fullest even when our lists are long and we’re not able to get it all done. Because we are more than ok because we are loved by Jesus, more than ok when we love fully. 

Peace on Earth

Meanwhile the cross comes before the crown, and tomorrow is a Monday morning. 

C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory

I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.

Jesus, John 10:10

Christmas is in one week. We’re all rushing around, finding gifts and putting up sparkly lights and eating lots of sugar. I’ve got Christmas music playing on my iPod at work. I ran around the mall tonight, trying to find an ugly Christmas sweater. We’re planning family events and the food (of course) and how much fun we’ll all have. We’re trying to budget presents. We’re basking in the light of our happy Christmas tree. 

And why do we do all these things? Why do we spend the money, why do we dig out the Christmas boxes of decorations, why do we make all the plans? 

Because one day, all will be well. 

One day, all will be right. All will be redeemed. All the pain will disappear, all the sad tears will dry. All the questions we have will be answered. Our bodies will be healed, our minds will be at peace. All the horrible things that have ever happened to us will be corrected and redeemed. All the wonderful things we’ve experienced will be more beautiful in the context of a world made perfect and whole. Our broken relationships will be fixed—all hurts and misunderstandings will fade away. 

One day, we will see all the people we love how they are meant to be—whole and shining. One day, our loved people will not be sick, not be haunted by their pasts. We will look at their faces and wonder how we never really saw how special, how wonderful, how incredible they are. They will amaze us—they will be everything they ever wanted to be, and more. We will be able to spend time with them and laugh and cry happy tears together. 

For now, we fix our gaze on what is to come-on Jesus coming to redeem this entire broken world. For now, we suffer with those who suffer. We pray for wars to end, for relationships to heal, for illness and poverty and discrimination to end, for grace for all. We do what we can, wherever we are, to bring heaven to earth. We hang lights in hope, we give presents to remind each other of our love, of our grace for them. We remember the promises of Scripture, we remember the stories of Jesus. We also remember how He had to come to earth as a baby, to be like us in our pain and sorrow and joy and relationships. We remember how He lived and loved and suffered—and we remember that He did it all for us. We remember we have a Savior who is Christ the Lord, who loves all us all to pieces, and gave us the Great Gift of Himself. 

Waiting for a Calm Sea

I work hard every day of my life

I work till I ache my bones

At the end I take home my hard earned pay all on my own 

I get down on my knees

And I start to pray

Till the tears run down from my eyes

Somebody to Love, Queen

And he awoke and rebuked the wind and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm.
Mark 4:39

Life is like the sea. 

Unpredictable, constant movement. Terrifying in a storm, blissful on a peaceful day, the sea is always changing, always beautiful. I live by the water, by a bay. Cocooned by mountains and flatlands and rivers, I am most at ease next to water. I can sit on a bench or a beach and watch the waves come and go, tides ebbing and flowing for hours. The sea is like breathing, like a rhythm that I can’t find anywhere else, let alone in my own head. It’s a peaceful metronome, the coming and going of crashing waves. 

Life feels like those crashing waves—they just keep coming and coming. It’s one thing to watch beautiful waves beachside—another to be engulfed by never-ending tides. When you are up to your neck in rising waves, the last thing you want is more water. How can it be peaceful or beautiful when there’s too much of it? There are days when life is simply overwhelming, and I’d like to simply stand on the beach and watch the water for a while, instead of tumbling over and over in its wake. I’d like to catch my breath before jumping back in, or splash around in the tide pools, or turn over a few barnacled-rocks. 

Fibromyalgia has been a furious tidal wave these last few months, weeks, days. I am drenched in exhaustion, soaked to my bones and muscles in pain and aches. Endometriosis is a tsunami of stabbing pelvic pain, allowing no time to come up for air. I’m tired from fighting all these waves of chronic pain, weary with battle fatigue. I’m tired from trying All The Things, of endless resting and putting my feet up, which is a little bit ironic. I’m desperate for a peaceful sea, to be able to lie on my back and just float for a while, even a little while. 

I’m desperate for Jesus to do for me what He did for the disciples, when He calmed their storm. He was exhausted, sleeping during a storm in a rickety boat. When will He wake up and see that I’m frightened, that I’m crazily trying to get my boat under control, but I can’t do it by myself? When will He cease these winds and rains and waves? Until He does, I will grit my teeth and hold on. I will hold on to the fact that there were terrifying moments even for the disciples He was physically with-those moments before He calmed the storm. It must have felt like an eternity to them, waiting for Him to act. But when He did, oh my. He rebuked the elements, He put the sea back in its place. And there was a great calm. And the disciples knew that Jesus was more than their great Teacher-He was the One who commanded the winds and the seas.  At last, here is the One who is bigger and larger than all my storms, all the things that life can throw at me—I am safe even though I am at sea. 

We Get to be Ok

Well I know that you heard a lot about
Things you can't control
So many things we like to have
We just cannot hold
You gotta be kind to yourself

She And Him - Me And You

In peace I will both lie down and sleep;
For you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety.

Psalm 4:8


Health burn-out.

It’s a real thing.

Because I’m living with fibromyalgia and endometriosis, I am now an avid list-maker, symptom-researcher, tip-reader, and pain-documenter. I've picked up numerous tricks for dealing with my set of circumstances. Avoiding large amounts of sugar seems to help. I've been working on my water intake, which for this coffee-loving girl is a JOB and a HALF. Taking supplements on a regular daily basis makes a huge difference, too--and I've never been one for schedules. I make a lot of random to-do lists-on backs of receipts, in small notebooks, on ripped out sheets of paper--my brain is often foggy and if I don’t write things down, well, they may be lost FOREVER. I read a lot about what works for other folks with fibromyalgia, what doesn't work for them. I try a lot of things-eating coconut oil, sipping on apple cider vinegar, stretching gently, avoiding wheat and dairy, soaking in Epsom salts, and resting as much as I can. My most recent health project is a daily fibro log, where I document levels of pain and fatigue, noting activities and what I eat.

It’s very, very easy to focus most of my energy on getting well, on feeling better, on finding new things to try. Too easy. After all, it’s a good thing to want to improve one’s health, right? When you feel good, you can do more, be more, see more, experience more. Our culture values busyness and activity and accomplishments. There seems to be no room for rest without movement, for space to be ill, or encouragement to do what you need to do if it‘s outside the norm. Sometimes it can feel like if you can’t take a selfie or fire off a round of jealousy-inducing pictures or statuses, you really have nothing to offer. What can a physically limited person like me hope to offer the world? Or even offer to my little corner of the world, to my friends, to my family, to my co-workers, to my community?

It’s during this frenzied line of thinking that I need to just take a freaking moment. And breathe. In. And. Out. Repeat.

Because I believe that everyone has worth and value regardless of what they can produce, I suppose that has to go for me, too. That even though I am researching my brains out and trying new things constantly to feel well, I still get to be where I’m at. I can still rest and enjoy life even though I will always be searching for wellness. I can shed the false guilt that comes along with having to be still. I will give myself a break from thinking about health and just live life how it is right now. Balancing the reality of fibro with responsibilities and goals and dreams will probably always be in the cards. When I calm down enough to realize I’m still An OK Person, it’s easier to see the ways I am doing well and taking care of myself and being available to the people to around me. Heck, I can even see how this stupid fibro thing has prompted me towards more gentleness and empathy and humility. My expectations are becoming, ever so slowly, more realistic. I am letting others help me more often; I am savoring good times with my favorite people more. I see how much I need Jesus and faith and prayer and grace and other people more and more, and that is a brilliant thing.

Megaphones and Haircuts

"I wish that I could be like the cool kids,
'Cause all the cool kids, they seem to fit in.
I wish that I could be like the cool kids, like the cool kids."
-Echo Smith, Cool Kids

For Christ’s love compels us, because we are convinced that one died for all, and therefore all died. And he died for all, that those who live should no longer live for themselves but for him who died for them and was raised again.
The Apostle Paul, 2 Corinthians 5:14-15


I made it to my haircut appointment a couple weeks ago. I’d had one scheduled in late August, but had to cancel last minute due to extreme fatigue and achiness. It’s been quite the struggle this fall to get past my aches and pains, so I was pretty proud of myself for managing to get to my appointment. My hair was in quite the state, I assure you. Two months past its expiration date, needing a desperate thinning and trimming. Plus, everyone knows that Haircut Day is just another term for Best Day Ever. 

I’ve been going to my hair lady now for nearly five years-she’s fantastic. Whenever I see her, I’m in constant awe of her style, her makeup, and her hair…naturally. It’s always PERFECT. It is, of course, the number one trait you should look for in a hairstylist-ENVIABLE HAIR. She’s always sweet, kind, funny, and laughs at all my jokes (the second thing you should look for in a hairstylist). Plus, my hair always looks perfect after I walk out of the salon-mmmmmm. Happiness.

Whenever I get my haircut, though, I’m reminded of how my fibro makes me look to others who aren’t around me all the time. I’m jolted out of my usual space. Normal, everyday conversation topics suddenly seem awkward.

How are you? Horribly achy and tired. Completely sleep-deprived. Oh, just fine! Just a little tired, that’s all.

What have you been up to? Hanging out on my couch. Nothing much, just the usual. You know.

Planning any trips? Uhhhh, to the pharmacy? Nah, not any time soon. Maybe for our anniversary?

What’s new with you? Trying a new vitamin supplement! Woohoo! Making it to this haircut! Haha!

I have told my hairstylist a bit about my chronic life, though-filled her in what fibromyalgia is, what endometriosis does. It’s a bit disconcerting to see someone else, although kind and interested, try to understand. I can see the confusion, reflected back in the large mirror that seems to amplify my tired face. It feels like I’m trying to explain my entire life when I explain what fibro’s done to me. I feel like I have to apologize or validate myself for my chronic pain. My fibro keeps me from “getting out there,” and so life feels small at times, especially talking to someone I only see occasionally. It reminds me of the impact fibro has on me. I feel like a bit of a freak in these times, to be honest. It’s sure not my hairstylist’s fault-it’s mine. I have these expectations of what my life should be like, what it should have been by now. I compare my life to everyone else’s, and that never ends well, even if you don’t have a chronic pain condition. I hear other’s stories and observe their high moments on social media, and feel laaaaaaaame. I think of all the things I want to do, the things not done, not experienced. Talk about the road less traveled; sometimes, it feels like no road is being traveled at all right now.

And then somehow I’m usually reminded that we all have something. We each have something about us that makes us feel lame, like we’re on the outside, like we don’t have what everyone else has. Things that we struggle to make sense of, let alone to other people. We all have story after story after story about our struggles; how we’ve succumbed to trials at times, and how we’ve overcome them. We have health things, we have personal bents, we have histories, we have issues. We don’t always see ourselves or others clearly because of our something.

For me, fibro makes it so clear that I can’t depend on myself for happiness or security or peace or a sense of identity. Shockingly clear-like plunging into an icy river. Fibro, and everything it leaves in its terrible wake, makes me ask a lot of my own questions, about life, faith, identity. All the things that matter.

Is God really for me in this? 

Why hasn’t He healed me? 

Can God really use my pain and turn it into something good? 

Where is the hope that my faith promises? 

Can I still live a good life with this chronic pain?

Complicated questions that can’t all be answered instantly or flippantly or easily. In the past few years, I find myself rereading known Scripture passages and testing them against my new normal. While I don’t know why God hasn’t taken away this physical pain, I can say with confidence that yes, God is still for me. He is instilling in me new roots, a new and growing sense of identity, which has nothing to do with what I can do or produce or experience, and everything to do with simply being loved by Him. Daily I choose to follow Him-I choose to love Him and my neighbor. Only because I know God, the Maker and Redeemer of this world, loves me. It sounds so simple, yet it’s taking a lifetime to realize. I’m slowly realizing that God only wants a relationship with me-this is what He wants for me, this is what I was made for.

Perhaps God is using my fibro to weed out perfectionist ideals, my insistence upon independence, or any number of things that keep me at arm's length from Him and others. C.S. Lewis puts it so eloquently in his book, The Problem of Pain, “We can ignore even pleasure. But pain insists upon being attended to. God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is his megaphone to rouse a deaf world.” I hope that whatever season we find ourselves in, whether we battle against struggles or find ourselves in joyful places, we will find and see that the love of God does indeed compel us, infusing our daily living with His joy and hope and peace.

Full of the Ordinary

All my life
Been shaking
Wanting something
Holding everything I have like it was broken
Gimme something good
-Ryan Adams, Gimme Something Good

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.
-James 1:17


Well, just doing life these days.

Nothing too crazy, too out-of-the-ordinary, too extravagant.

Actually, we have gone to see two movies in the last two weeks, speaking of summer blockbuster extravagance. And we will see another in a couple weeks. Because…this. But other than that, it has been neither wild or crazy.

We have The Work and The Weekend-dividing our time into rest and livelihoods. We have appointments, meals, hang-out times, and game nights. There’s the shopping, the cleaning, the laundry, the dishes, the recycling. This is the Pacific Northwest, after all. Figuring the fibro out is a daily thing-how to rest, and how to push through; how to breathe through it all-the pain and the exhaustion, but sometimes just the plain unfairness of it all. There’s the texts, the emails, the messages that make the day so much better.

In the past few weeks, I've tried not to see the looming mountain that is August. I've tried to ignore it, block it. Focus on the present and all that. But here we are. I've felt more grief about my miscarriage in the past few weeks, knowing that August and my would-be due date has been steadily approaching. I stopped counting the weeks I “should” be a long time ago, but now it’s mind-boggling and mind-numbing to think that I would be quickly approaching 40 weeks. The start of our baby adventure, the start of a new, terrifying, and completely wonderful season. Names could have been chosen, a nursery all set up by now. Ah well. Grief is thankfully smaller now, not as all-encompassing. But there is a hole in my heart that will never fully close, never completely heal. 

So grief is a part of life now. And so it should be-for to ignore this pain, this season would be heartless. I must give my grief space and room and air-even though it does not require as much now. I’m faced with the reality this month all over again, and I must look it in the eyes. I will hold this month close-cherish my first child with remembering, with celebrating, with writing. I will give thanks for his or her life, and the joy that his or her existence brought.

Even though this month is full of the ordinary, the normal, not full of the anticipation we hoped for, it is still good. There is still joy to be found. This life is a gift. The pain, the aches, the uncertainties, the smallness and the grandeur of life-it is all gift. All grace. The grief of miscarriage, the grief of chronic pain-it is all pointing me back to the Gospel, to the Creator, to the Giver of life. I find myself needing to be held-held by a heavenly Father from whom all good things flow, and from whom all comfort for all sorrow comes. He is the One to whom I bring all my broken things, and while He does not fix them all, He is sad with me. There is also the promise of redemption, of hope, for transformation for all things. The Apostle Paul says in his letter to the Romans that creation itself longs for transformation, for healing. I will cling to the promises, the hope, the love and joy of Jesus this month, this season, and in this ordinary and splendid life.

Giving Up Superwoman

Everybody movin' so fast
Makes you feel like you’re already part of the past

Ray LaMontagne, Airwaves

Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men, knowing that from the Lord you will receive the inheritance as your reward. You are serving the Lord Christ.
Paul, in his letter to the Colossians


I want to be Superwoman.

Reality check. 

I will never be Superwoman.

At least, not the one I envision in my head. I am an independent female with opinions and goals and responsibilities and relationships. But I also have chronic pain and fatigue. I’ve been trying, I realized, to be the exact same person as before my condition, and that’s just not realistic. I’m finally seeing this. It’s taken months (years?) to even see that I can’t do it all. Even if I didn’t have fibromyalgia, I still can’t do everything I think I should be doing. No one else expects me to do it all, have it all, be it all. I’m the only one who expects Superwoman status from myself. 

I’ve been wanting to see fibromyalgia as something I can tell to pipe down, to take a quiet time, to take a backseat. This is my life, after all. But fibromyalgia is a loud beast. It insists on being heard. I find myself being the one to take a backseat, to take a quiet time. It’s pretty weird, having to revolve life around something like this “invisibility cloak” of a condition. It’s not always obvious that I’m not feeling super. I can usually function pretty well and get through the day. But other days, usually weekends, I need a lot of downtime. I’m not good at having fibromyalgia, and it will probably never be easy to work to around.

I’m getting better, though, at adjusting my expectations because of fibro. Such as learning to ask for help. This is really hard for that Independent Female I mentioned earlier. Even with my husband, who is the kindest, most thoughtful man ever-he helps me with things before I even think to ask. Being chronically ill is a pride-buster, for sure. I am currently working through being able to widen my circle of people I would ask for help. That is a big step for me. I’m like a two-year old screaming: “I WANNA DO IT MYSELF!”

And of course, I’m working through asking God for help. How true for all of us, though, is that? Whatever our circumstances are, we always need to be working on asking God for help, for strength, for encouragement, for grace, for peace, for healing, for compassion. If we’re not ill ourselves, someone we know is sick or in pain. We are all in need, of things only God can give us.

It’s so hard to step back and remember that no one needs me to be Superwoman. It’s ok to adjust my heavy expectations for myself, and just live and do what I can, and try to do those things well. I will practice taking stock of where I’m at physically, admitting I need help, and definitely celebrate my ordinary and shining victories, small as they may seem. I will celebrate an afternoon of shopping, an evening of hanging out with friends. I will enjoy every moment of cooking a meal or dusting the bookcases. This seems to be a higher calling, a more realistic expectation than demanding super-human feats from myself.

Renovation

O break, O break, hard heart of mine!
Thy weak self-love and guilty pride
His Pilate and His Judas were:
Jesus, our Lord, is crucified.

-Hymn, O Come and Mourn with Me a While

I believe, help my unbelief!
-Father of a sick child Jesus healed, Mark 9:24


I don’t pick up the Bible as often as I’d like.

Before you roll your eyes at me and suggest that I just calm down about having a spiritual high horse, or say the Bible is hard to understand anyway and is full of contradictions and confusion and controversy, or tell me to get on the quiet time band wagon, let me say that I know all of that. Believe me. I grew up in church, surrounded by activities like Sunday school and Awana and Bible quizzing, attending and serving at apologetics camp. I’ve memorized a lot of Scripture over the years, most of which now I couldn’t repeat word for word now, but its truth remains in my head and heart. I’ve messed up a lot in my life, in relationships and life choices, and just in the daily grind of deciding how to live my little life. I’m usually in some stage of doubting faith, usually about my own ability to practice Christianity, because I typically forget that life in Christ is grace-ridden. But my raggedy faith is my own, won through dark nights of the soul, and I believe in the life, death, resurrection, and message of Jesus wholeheartedly. I have a deep, deep love of Scripture. I don’t think I’ve read it all the way through yet, and there’s lots from the Old Testament that I don’t understand. But love of the Word is foundational to my life and my thinking.

So…why don’t I read it more often now?

A simple question that I’ve shied away from. I think I tell myself that I’m too tired in the morning, and I’ll read it before bed. But if my eyes aren’t drooping too much when I crawl in bed, I tend to reach for the murder mystery on top of my Bible instead. You know. I’ve been practicing this technique of “I’ll read it later” for so long it’s a strong habit to break. And this is something I know is life-giving, a fresh wind in my soul, helps me breathe better, and inspires my creativity and introvert self.

I think the real reason is that life-giving things also tend to be hard things. Things that we can break ourselves on. I know from experience that my walls of pride, independence, anger, and malice will be assailed with the good and hard things of God when I read the Bible. I am afraid my little walls and fortresses and towers will be completely breached. God calls me to put to death the things that are not of Him-the ways of anger and gossip and hatred and storing up bitterness. He calls me to put on the ways of love and forgiveness and compassion for everyone, to forgive as He has forgiven me. Such a beautiful and holy way to live, but so challenging. Life apart from Christ beckons me to an existence of mediocre rules and regulations, of the easy life of selfishness. My heart gets hard so quickly-it freezes tight and squeezes shut. Scripture is my exfoliate, my rock tumbler, my pumice stone, the tide that washes all my stones smooth.

I want to read the Bible more…not because I have to, but because I get to. Because it washes my dusty being, because it restores me, because my hard heart must break wide open for His transformation to begin. I long for soul-deep renovation, and it is to be found in the living words of Scripture, in addition to prayer, to solitude, to community, to service, to practicing belief, to being in nature. Knowing Scripture widens my heart and graces me with compassion for others and fills me with the knowledge of His love.

Hard

You can’t take back what you have done/You gotta keep your heart young.
-Brandi Carlile

In our tough and often unbending world our gentleness can be a vivid reminder of the presence of God among us.
-Henri Nouwen

I’m afraid the pain will make me hard. Anxious that the aches will dry up whatever gentleness I had left in me. That the pain will only give me eyes for myself. I see people all the time with chronic pain and the elderly in tired bodies. Some of them have deep lines etched into their faces, and even speaking or pulling out a piece of paper to hand me takes too much effort. Some of them speak soft and gentle, with eyes that know pain but still contain light. And  life and pain have taken too much from others still, leaving them with permanent pain lines, with an eternal sharp tone, always expecting the worst.

These are some of the bruised wicks, broken reeds among us. I suppose we really are all in chronic pain of some kind, chronic brokenness. I’ll be honest, I too feel like a bruised wick most of the time. Unable to hold a flame, or keep a light burning. Every day, I rise and wonder if this will be the day I can’t make it. Will the pain, the exhaustion be too much this day? Most days I can set my mouth and go about the day’s tasks, only to fall on my couch at the end of the day in a wrung-out heap. I can’t keep up with everything asked of me, or everything I want to do. And it seems like every time I start to do something healing, like take up walking or stretching or giving up dairy, something else happens to put me back to square one. Maybe it’s like climbing up a huge mountain and being told not to look down. Maybe it’s not always a good idea to dwell on where you’ve been and what you‘ve lost or given up. Maybe you really need to just focus on what’s in front of you. Take another step. When I stop to think about how long this journey to health has been going on, it’s discouraging. When I think of all the supplements, the rest, the Netflix marathons, the sick time taken, the waiting rooms, the tests, the food sensitivities, the unknowns, the suffered relationships, well-it’s heartbreaking.

With no obvious answers or ease of pain about to happen, I see these as choices before me…gentle or hard, soft or hard, tight or flexible, peaceful or anxious. What will I choose this day? I am determined to choose life, to choose faith. To do what I can do, and not merely focus on what I can’t. To be thankful for the gifts that God has given me-the husband, the grace, the friends, the family, the job, the freedom, the rain, the gospel, the God-Man of Jesus Himself, His precious Word, and words themselves. To still have eyes to see the glory of nature, the glory of humankind. To still have a heart that breaks with the sorrows of the world--bombings and kidnappings and lives broken and lost. To still have hands that can work and reach out to comfort others. To still have a sense of humor and goodwill in this world. To still have ears that hear the music of pianos and guitars and human voices and babies in churches and waiting rooms. To still have feet to sink sand-deep and run in waves. I will keep asking, seeking, knocking, and remember the gentleness and love of a Savior King who went through so much more for the redemption of this entire sad and beautiful world.

Treasuring Change

Everybody’s changing, and I don’t feel the same. 

-Keane

But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead. 

-The Apostle Paul, Letter to the Philippians

Last Tuesday, my favorite and I celebrated two whole years of marriage together. It’s hard to imagine that not too long ago, we were planning wedding festivities and future plans together. Now we are in the middle of this astounding marriage between two imperfect but wholly commited people. Two years into this change, I still marvel at God’s grace and joy at blessing me in this way. It is the beautiful making, the growing, of me.

Yet in the midst of joyfully learning and embracing being one in life, I am realizing more and more the need for some silence, for some solitude. The older I get, the more changes I go through, and the more time I need to just think about them. I balk at most of them, to be honest. Through all the large ones and small ones alike-I usually grit my teeth and just try to get through the change. In the past few  years, there have been things like marriage, job changes, health changes, food-allergy changes, and relationship changes, just to name a few.

I was reminded recently during our small group of the life of Mary, the mother of Jesus, in the context of transition. I hadn’t really thought before how much transition and change she went through. She was told she would be the mother of God, then she was called upon to let go of that responsibility in leaps and bounds throughout her life. A missing-for-three-days 12-year old Jesus told her and Joseph that he was merely going about his father’s business...and not Joseph’s business. She was abruptly told that his real mother, his real family were those who did the will of his father in heaven. She was constantly being tugged and pulled upon to change; indeed, she had no other choice but to embrace all these changes for the good of the gospel. She had to step aside and lay down her God-given role as Jesus’ earthly mother, so he could become the Savior of the world, of her world.

How did she do it? I mean, really? The more I think about it, the more amazing her story and life becomes. We are told consistently that she pondered, that she treasured, that she stored up the events and words of these transitions. Was that her secret to not imploding? Not to merely ruminate or notate, but to treasure the change. What does that really mean? What does He want me to treasure, to ponder, to store up in my heart? What does He want me to let go of, in order to make way for positive new things? I am not a gracious changer! Not even with the good things. I burrow deep down in my little life, clench the earth in my tight greedy fingers, clinging to what I know in the shadows. Even when I'm gently called upon by my God to come out into the sunlight and dance. Dance in the new gifts He's given me. Dance throughout the changes. To grow more flexible, to open my closed hands more readily. He wants to shower gifts of freedom, laughter, purpose, meaning, health, strength, grief, joy. My head is usually tucked in, my arms crossed, my eyes closed to the good things of God. One of those very good things is...change. I've always seen change as the mortal enemy. Change takes away the familiar, the usual, the cozy-worn-in-slipper feeling of my life. Changes bring bracing winds, reviving rain through a constant need for decision, a constant need for Jesus. Surely the gift of decision...how will we choose our life's path...how will we handle change thrust upon us...how will we respond to daily joys and sorrows, to pain of all kinds, to life-changing events...is a true joy, a true responsibility.

I'm finally realizing that I can embrace change with joy and courage. My head doesn't have to hang low...I don't just have to grit my teeth and hold on. Even though that is sometimes all I feel I can do! But it seems that somewhere deep inside, I have the guts and the determination and the know-how to change with grace and confidence. We don't just have to love change for the sake of change, either. We don't just have to "treasure" seemingly random change or difficult transition without any reason. The reason is because we are born to change. Changing means growth. I’m realizing that of course, I don't want to stay the same! I do want to grow...and that does mean transition by necessity. Perhaps this is one reason Jesus used the metaphor of the vine and the branch when illustrating the life of a lover of God-because learning to abide means learning to change. The branch grows around and into and takes hold of the vine, the root, the trunk-the source of strength and existence. And it's beautiful and natural and good and hard to change. It takes seasons and time and all kinds of weather for a tree to fully mature. Here's to growing up in hope, faith, and love, looking forward with joy.

Joy to Our World

Mortal! We Spirits of Christmas do not live only one day of our year. We live the whole three hundred and sixty-five. So is it true of the Child born in Bethlehem. He does not live in men’s hearts one day of the year, but in all the days of the year.
-A Christmas Carol

I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.

-Jesus, John 10:10

I’m so excited about Christmas this year that I’ve been breaking unwritten rules by listening to Christmas albums EARLY. I find myself listening to carols on the way to work with tears streaming down my face. Pretty crazy, right? It’s just that Christmas keeps smacking me in the face with the idea of joy. This world really sucks sometimes. Broken relationships, broken dishes, broken jobs, broken bodies, broken everything sometimes. I get caught up in the brokenness a lot. So when I turn on my Christmas music, things like joy, peace, and holy nights filter past my feelings and flood my imagination. The gospel shines out like all the lit candles during a Christmas Eve service. It fills up my days like a stuffed stocking on Christmas morning. Like a star on top of a Christmas tree, the good news of Jesus coming to earth brightens and transforms my home life and my work life and everything in between.

Come and worship Christ the King. Drop whatever you’re doing and just gaze at Him. Then give Him all your gifts of sorrows, of joys, of talents, of time. Go tell it on a mountain that our Jesus Christ is born. Live your life where everyone around you can see you and hear your story of what He has done for you; for them; for all of us. Ransom captive Israel. He has freely rescued you from yourself, from sin, from people-pleasing, from a 9-5 sort of job, from our terrible histories, for His love redeems all those things. Our mourning can finally end and our rejoicing can be loud because He has finally come. No more let sins and sorrows infest the ground. Whatever you’ve done, whatever others have done to you, don’t let them take root in you! Jesus would go on to say, “Go and sin no more.“ Let us root out our sorrows and sins and allow God to plant His joy and peace in us. Our sorrows are not any less real because of Christmas, of course, but we do know that their end is finally in sight. God with man is now residing. Abiding in us. Making all things new, making abundant life in each of us. Born to die. For you, for me, for our past, for our present, and for our future.

This gospel, this good news, is why we take time to prepare and celebrate. God Himself came as a baby born in poverty, only to grow up, show us the Kingdom of God, and then die alone to save the sorry lot of humanity. Why shouldn’t it stop us in our tracks? Break us out of our routine, crack our daily mirrors, make us drop our coffee cups, keep us up at night? I don’t want to be like the innkeeper who couldn’t find any room for Jesus, the King of the Universe. Sure, He’ll find some way to make His presence known in our lives and maybe even be born in the stable in the back. But don’t I want to fully invite the glories of His righteousness, the wonders of His love, to wash over me and transform me?

So I’m making room for Him, in this upcoming Christmas season and for all the rest of the year. Let us remind ourselves of the great story of Jesus, how He came to reconcile humanity to Himself,  and how He Himself is in the business of giving joy and making all celebration possible. Let us each prepare Him room, then. Let us be filled to the brim with His joy and peace. Let us be overflowing with the joy and hope of the season all year-round, so His much-needed joy will be spread throughout this world.